NO Quarter

by Robert Asprin

  The Two of Cups usually indicated lovers or partners. What about both? Was it even remotely possible that Sunshine could have been my daughter? I didn’t think so. While not impossible, it was seriously unlikely. Sunshine had nothing of my skin coloring, no trace of my distinctive features. Besides, Hope would have told me about her. It was the free-love ’60s, but we had been more than just lovers. We had been friends. We’d respected each other.

  But she had also been a genuine free spirit. While she didn’t know anything about my growing connection to the Outfit, she could sense, even then, that I was getting into dangerous territory. She wanted no part of it. We split as friends, intending to keep in touch. But, in some twisted, gallant attempt to protect her from the possible consequences of my work, I never really made the effort.

  Did it really matter? At the very least Sunshine had been Hope’s daughter, if not mine. That meant my own stake in our little operation had just seriously escalated. I had come on board as the “experienced expert” to keep things on track and hopefully keep Bone safe. But now it was personal. By the time I made it back to my apartment from the Calf I knew one thing: failure was no longer optional. I would get Sunshine’s killer.

  * * *

  Today’s was a daylight operation. I picked out casual-dressy khaki pants, a short-sleeved cotton shirt with a collar, and loafers. My hair is long enough to put into a ponytail, but I went to the bother of digging out an old can of hair spray. After a little work, I had my mop swept back and styled. Checking myself in the mirror, I decided I looked like a citizen. By sliding a folding knife into my right front and back left pants pocket, though, I became a well-armed citizen. That I could live with. I also took along my new cellular phone.

  “Use, don’t rely,” is a good adage for information. That is, gather what you can from where you can, and act on it as fit, but don’t think everything is gospel. As a tracker, info had been gold to me, and reliable info platinum.

  I had every reason to trust the Bear’s information. For one, he had proven himself a friend over the years. He was long since out of the military but still lived by an almost samurai code of honor. He was one of those rare people that didn’t promise things—he gave his word.

  For another, owing to the company he kept and where he worked, he was in the pipeline as far as news on the ex-con scene went. Still it made sense that I should check an alternative source for anything he might have missed.

  I was frankly tempted to bring the Bear in on things. I knew I could tell him outright about the hunt and had no doubts at all he would hop eagerly on board, bringing a lot of valuable resources and skills he’d accumulated in his Special Forces days. But with myself, Bone, Alex, and now Padre sticking his toe in the edge of the pool, things were getting crowded. These people knew who I was, and I could trust them. Any more, though, and it would feel like my years with the Outfit were common knowledge. That made me uneasy. So did my near-revelation of my military past, which was something that wouldn’t have happened had I been thinking clearly.

  Of course, the Bear didn’t have to know any of that ...

  I put the thought aside and focused on today’s contact.

  Lynch J. Morise had been a successful local PI in his heyday. That he’d retired twenty-five years ago and yet remained a Quarterite was a reflection of his deep affection for the neighborhood. That at age 85-plus he still made the rounds might give you some idea what a tough old cuss he was.

  The Royal Sonesta Hotel’s lobby bar, called the Mystic Den, was a class act all the way. Air-conditioned and fitted with plush furnishings, it was open to the public, but the staff nonetheless didn’t let just anybody wander in. If you tried to catch a snooze in one of their chairs or looked like you were there to pick pockets, you got shown the door. It was one of my getaways. There are places I turned up regularly—the Calf, Fahey’s, etc., etc. I am guaranteed to run into people I know at all these places, and that’s part of my reason for going.

  I like being a part of this strange community—it seems normal now, after ten years. But sometimes change is good. Once in a while I like to spruce up a bit and stop in at the Sonesta’s bar, though not so often to be considered a regular by any means. Even so, my good tipping habits usually assured that at least someone on the staff remembered me.

  Thing was, I rarely bumped into anybody at all from my normal bar scene. Sometimes I struck up conversations with guests of the hotel who’d had enough of Bourbon Street. Sometimes I’d meet fellow Quarterites that simply traveled in completely different circles from mine. I’d met attorneys, a taxidermist, a retired playwright who’d seen her work produced on Broadway, doctors from various hospitals and research facilities in the city, and so on. Generally, they were a different brand of people from those I usually mingled with. It was a fun game to play, even though in the end it was just another time-killer.

  It was there, of course, that I’d made the acquaintance of Lynch J. Morise.

  I wore a wristwatch today, and checked it as I came in off Bourbon, leaving behind the clutter of delivery trucks and of young children who glued bottle caps to the soles of their sneakers so they could tap dance for spare change. I breezed into the lobby bar, quietly relieved to see the old man in his chair. At four o’clock each and every day but Sunday, Lynch J. Morise could be counted on to be there, having his “high tea.” That’s an extra spicy Bloody Mary to you and me.

  He was one of those indestructible old-timers you’ll find around the Quarter. They are our royalty—kings emeritus and grand dames.

  “It’s Maestro!” he called out, spotting me instantly. “Com’ere, kiddo. You can keep me company.”

  The handsome black woman behind the bar recognized me. I gave her a smile and a healthy tip, and took my drink over to join Lynch. I was relieved to see him because, heck, at his age, his not showing up might be real cause for worry.

  We shook hands. He had a bony but firm grip. He wore a beige suit. His hair was pure white, and his skin was like papyrus.

  “Good to see you, Lynch.”

  “’Course it is, Maestro. I make you feel like a kid by comparison!” He cackled.

  I didn’t argue with him, but truth was, the fierce old man had a more energetic vibe than most people I knew. More impressive, perhaps, his mind was still razor-sharp. Several decades as a private investigator had exercised his mental faculties. Since retirement, he had kept himself purposefully busy. I admired—and even keenly envied—that on a personal level.

  “How’s that pool-playing team of yours?” he asked.

  Some topics you can’t escape. Dutifully, I told him where the Snake Plisskens were in the standings. I was struck, though, as always, by how different the atmosphere was in the Mystic Den. Carpet underfoot, no rock music blasting, no loud talk, just a comfortable hush in the lightly scented air. It was virtual tranquility. There was no one within earshot of us.

  Lynch, even at his advanced age, didn’t wear glasses or contact lenses. From the chair opposite, he regarded me with his sharp eyes.

  When I first met Lynch a few years back and learned he was a PI, retired or not, I went instantly into alert mode. Someone who had made at least part of his living finding people who didn’t want to be found wasn’t someone I wanted to associate with. He was, however, an undeniably fascinating man who had an anecdote for every occasion. He was tremendously intelligent, also quite charming.

  In a way, I realized, he might be Sneaky Pete’s opposite number. Pete, an ex-cop clerk, was something of a contact with the local police. Lynch, though, represented the private sector. He had contacts and maybe even influence, but it was all unofficial. As an active PI, local legend had it, he had often found himself at odds with the authorities. I had no worries about anything I said to him being passed on to the NOPD.

  “What’s on your mind, Maestro?”

  “What makes you think there
’s something on my mind?” I retorted blandly, but it was a fairly useless feint.

  I couldn’t run the same sham on him I’d used with the Bear. Lynch was a Quarterite, but there is every level of society represented in the Quarter. With Lynch, I needed a different class of pretense if I wanted information. I’d given my play a good deal of thought. It was almost toying with fire, but I was determined to go through with it.

  “Come, come, Maestro. I’ve always smelled something about you that’s not quite cop, not quite criminal. You keep your cards close to your vest, and I like that in a person, and I’d never try to peek at your hand ... but I know you’re not a civilian. ’Least, I wouldn’t rate you as one.”

  See why I immediately went on alert when I met him?

  “Maybe you should be reading cards on the Square, Lynch.”

  He cackled again.

  I hunched forward in my chair, setting my drink on the low table between us. “It’s about that recent murder on the Moonwalk.”

  The old man shook his head grimly.

  “Ugly business that. Hate seeing anything like it in the Quarter.”

  “I agree,” I nodded. “So does everybody I know—so much so that a few people are talking about taking things into their own hands.”

  “Not surprising. It would be a fine thing if the police could solve every crime, if they had no limit to their time and means and attention. ’Course, that wouldn’t have left me much of a career, would it?” He took a thoughtful swallow from his tall Bloody Mary glass. “Are you saying there’s a hanging posse gathering?”

  I was aware of the eggshells I was walking on. Lynch was astute, but I believed I could outmaneuver him, simply by hiding in plain sight.

  “Nothing quite that drastic. Not yet. But the police haven’t come through on this thing. That girl who was killed, she had friends. I’ve heard a lot of secondhand talk. I wouldn’t normally give it much credit. But the buzz is that some parties in the Quarter—I don’t know who—are getting serious about acting. I’m starting to worry that somebody might try something dangerous and foolish. I’m trying to be the voice of reason.”

  “How sage-like of you, kiddo.”

  Apparently, you’re never too old for smartass banter in the Quarter.

  “Lynch, I’m serious.” I put on a worried face. “I don’t want anybody going off half-cocked and getting themselves hurt, or worse. The girl’s murder was bad enough. I don’t want to see it lead to more tragedy.”

  He was nodding. He was a Quarterite, and he knew how talk in a bar could lead to unfortunate events.

  “It’s admirable of you, Maestro. Is there some way you can cool these people down?”

  I took a breath.

  “There’s a rumor flying. You know how that goes in the Quarter, right? But I’ve heard that these people have got hold of it, and they’re taking it for fact.”

  “And the rumor is?” He had dropped his joking manner, and was listening earnestly.

  “That there’s someone in the Quarter just out of jail that recently finished a stretch for murder. A stabbing murder.”

  “And this gang wants to find this person, put him on trial, judge, and execute him. Is that about the thrust of it?”

  “That’s what the hotter heads are supposedly talking about doing.” I made an exasperated grunt. “If I could kill the rumor, they might back off this. As is, I’m afraid they’ll pick the wrong guy. You know, some brand-new parolee trying to put his life back together.”

  “I understand.”

  Lynch extracted a cigarillo from his suit jacket. I leaned forward and lit it for him.

  “What you want from me, Maestro, is to know if the rumor has any truth to it, right?”

  “You’re a well-informed man, Lynch. That’s no secret. You’re also not the police. I couldn’t go to the cops with this. I want facts to disprove the rumor. If I can put the truth out on the grapevine for these people to hear, it might defuse the bomb before it explodes.” Even to my own cynical ears, I sounded convincingly sincere.

  The old man blew out a plume of blue smoke.

  “I do get a lot of information passed my way. My old PI office still uses me as an unofficial consultant sometimes.” He nodded. “Sure, Maestro, I’ll give you the skinny. There are four men who’ve been let out in the past month who had French Quarter addresses when they went in. Presumably, they’ve returned here.”

  That matched what the Bear had told me—the Juggernaut, Jo-Jo, and two unspecified black guys.

  Lynch ticked them off on his skeletal fingers. “One did a sentence for grand theft auto, one for check fraud, one for assault ...”

  That one could be Jugger, I thought.

  “... and, I’m afraid, one for murder.”

  I didn’t have to fake my surprised look.

  “I’m sorry, but the gossips are right on this one, kiddo. The guy stabbed his girlfriend with a kitchen knife. She tried to kill him with it first, though. There were two witnesses.”

  “Jesus wept,” I muttered, but I was thinking hard and fast. “Maybe you ought to send word to this guy ...”

  “And tell him there’s a band of vigilantes after him? I don’t think so, Maestro. Sounds like there’s some rough stuff brewing, and I’m too old to get in the middle of it. You want this guy warned, you do it. Maybe he can get out of the Quarter. He’s—let’s see ...”

  I watched files being mentally shuffled behind those sharp eyes.

  “Munoz. That’s the name. José Munoz.”

  I felt my stomach suddenly shrink.

  Jo-Jo.

  “I hope you find him before someone else does.” Lynch stared into his glass for a moment. “There are a lot of guilty people walking the streets free, Maestro. But it’s when someone innocent goes to jail, or gets offed for no good reason ... those are the troubling moral things that stay with us to the grave.” I had a feeling he was speaking from personal experience.

  “Thanks,” I rose to leave. He stood with me shaking my hand again, his grip even firmer than before.

  “Good luck.”

  Esplanade Avenue divides us from the Faubourg Marigny, which is a neighborhood much quieter and gentler than ours. It has its bars, restaurants, shops, its own scene and culture and flavor. It’s not the Quarter, and doesn’t try or want to be. I know people in the Marigny. I have visited the Marigny. We are both a part of the city of New Orleans. Yet, in a real sense, we’re separate states.

  Maestro had speed-dialed me earlier to test our new cell phones. The ringing had startled me. I was having a last cup of coffee at the apartment before heading out on tonight’s job when I heard the weird chirping and put the lightweight, tiny phone to my ear.

  Despite its size, it had good sound quality. Maestro told me what he’d learned that afternoon about Jo-Jo. My blood went a touch cold. It certainly seemed the evidence was piling up on our Latino suspect. Maestro hoped to find him sometime tonight. I wished him luck.

  I didn’t ask Maestro about the source of his information, and he didn’t volunteer to reveal it. We were partners, yes, but I understood he had his reservations, myself being the amateur, understood his nagging desire to keep me away from all potential danger. He would probably—consciously or otherwise—continue to try to marginalize me in this hunt, especially now that he had his own reasons for being involved. My thought? He could try. I had my bead on Dunk, and I had tracked him down without Maestro’s help. Whatever else happened, Dunk was mine.

  Check Point Charlie’s squatted on the corner of Esplanade and Decatur. I hiked over at about ten-thirty, experiencing that common Quarterite vertigo when encountering two lanes of traffic after days or weeks or months of dealing only with the Quarter’s narrow one-ways. I don’t drive, and so never have to worry about negotiating anything except foot traffic. Still, it can be
a powerful moment of culture shock. Esplanade was a border street, wide, split by a tree-lined median, fronted by large old homes. Cars rolled up and down it.

  I don’t feel guilty for the amount of time I spend in the Quarter, the degree to which I ignore the rest of our city. Home, job, friends, recreation—all are found in the Quarter. The rest of it ... the downtown, the old walled cemeteries where tour groups go, the plantation estates, the parks, the outlying suburbs, Lake Pontchartrain ... I’m content where I am. I’m happy. Or as happy as I can be. For once in my life, I thoroughly belong.

  In spite of the heat, I had let my dark hair out of its ponytail, hadn’t combed it. The high humidity made it stick to the back of my neck. It flowed disheveled around my lean shoulders. I wore my boots, black jeans, a T-shirt. Slacker neutral. Shouldn’t call a lick of attention to myself.

  There was heat lightning across the river, lighting the sky above the West Bank that’s—I think—actually east from here. We don’t use a North-South-East-West compass in the Quarter. Instead, you refer directions by adjacent districts or border streets or the Mississippi. The wide sheets of lightning were accompanied by no thunder, but flashed spooky, ghostly. A freight train grumbled and squealed along the tracks beyond the levee wall and parking lot. I heard a boat blast its horn on the river.

  There were a few people standing around outside Check Point’s, just that corner hang thing, checking out the scene without having to go in and buy a drink. Kids—I was immediately bummed for a smoke, gave it over, said to the next mendicant, “One’s the limit on my charity.” He shrugged, shuffled off.